It’s reassuring to know they’re not perfect.
“You said that was one of the rumours.” I try to keep the bitterness out of my voice. “What are the others?”
“There’s one that the locals have started taking the stuff,” Edda says. “You know what the locals are like with drugs.”
I know. The users will try anything and the authorities will ban it as soon as they find out. The perfect conditions for ensuring a product is expensive, adulterated and supplied by criminals. If the natives start taking tonin those criminals would soon be involved. They couldn’t allow a drug that works properly to compete with their inferior product. I’m a little put out by the confident way Edda says it: she’s only just got here.
Still, gang violence over a drug from the future might explain the involvement of someone like Riemann. Damage limitation, tidying up. Assuming he’s on the side of virtue. South and Central America are where a lot of native drugs are produced.
“No,” I say, with more force than I mean. I’m not sure what effect tonin would have on a native. Probably the same as on us: a few augs aside, brain chemistry can’t have changed much in two hundred years. Certainly not as much as gut flora. “Surely we’d have heard about that. It would be more than a rumour.”
Li sighs as if I’m a slow learner. “We don’t think they use tone. But just because it doesn’t get reported doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”
“Or they’re taking it and calling it something else,” Edda says. “El Niño. Or something completely different. Like float. Or wankdust.”
I assume these are native culture references. Even Li looks impressed.
“So, are people saying our client made a deal with natives?”
“Maybe not a deal,” Li says. “And maybe not your client. But they might have found out about tonin. Some extemp trying to impress his new friends. You know how that can happen.”
“Right.” It’s exactly the kind of thing I can imagine Ivan doing. Look at my tattoos. Try my wonder drug. “So they might be interested in her. What are they going to do? Offer her a better price?”
“She could be in danger.”
Which, again, might explain Riemann. Except he’d insisted she wasn’t in danger. “They won’t try anything. They don’t try anything,” I say. “If they did they must know it would involve a Safety Team.”
“These are drug dealers, Spens. Most of them are drug users. They’re not the smartest people around.”
“We don’t think she’s in trouble. Even if she is a courier, she could be staying with whichever extemp paid for her holiday.”
“But you have to be careful with this. This could be serious.”
“Possibly.” I suspect I know better than Li. I’ve seen Riemann, who said it doesn’t affect me. I’m just a rep. In a few weeks I go home. “Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.” Saying it when I’m not in any danger makes me feel slightly fraudulent. “We really don’t think she’s in any trouble.”
Li isn’t appeased. “Because there’s nothing on the record? You know you can’t trust those. They’ll say whatever Geneva wants us to think.”
Logan collects our empty glasses. We don’t talk about Geneva or records in front of natives. Logan might not look like a Domehead but there’s a chance he knows some Modern. I change the subject to Ivan. Edda joins in and somehow the conversation moves to her asking Li about her earlier visit and about how someone with my background came to be a rep. It’s all standard Happiness: they smile as if they’re pleased to see you and ask questions as if they care about your answers. It’s not an act (they are pleased to see you, they do care); it’s more like a conditioned reflex. And you can’t help responding. Li tells her hospital story and I tell her I used to work the Tunnels, which Edda claims to find fascinating (“I thought you had augs.”). She’s intrigued again when she finds out I don’t live at a resort and, once the subject of kin is raised, I end up saying more than I intended about how my parents died (an industrial accident when I was twelve), a story I hadn’t even told Li. (They had been working in a recovery team. I was staying in a hostel when I heard the news. There was a memorial service one morning: I was excused classes for the afternoon; the hostel became my home until I went to the Tunnels.) Edda listens sympathetically. It occurs to me she would make a good interrogator. Unusually for a Happiness she doesn’t talk about herself. I can’t tell if this is modesty or another level of training.
Two hours later Li and Edda have caught the bus back to their resort and I’m making my way to the Metro. I’m not paying as much attention to my surroundings as I should because I’m thinking about Edda. She isn’t a typical Happiness. That she took an instant dislike to Ivan is a point in her favour; that she knew Tri-Millennium clients carried tonin for extemps is worrying. I’ve been here a year and a half and didn’t know something she’d learned on her first week. What else have I missed? I’m so intent on this and the conversation I need to have with Erquist I don’t notice the doorway ahead of me isn’t the entrance to a nightclub and that the two native men standing in it aren’t bouncers, even if they are bouncer material: big for natives, heavy-set, though the tallest is still a head shorter than me. The older and squarer of the two is wearing a dark suit, like an office worker. The taller, leaner one is in a shiny black jacket. If they’re following the usual native dress codes the man in the suit is in charge. They step out from the doorway, blocking my path. I’m belatedly alert. There’s a wall on one side, parked cars on another, these two ahead of me. Nobody behind. They’re acting alone.
“You,” the Suit says. “You’re with Tri-Millennium, aren’t you?”
It’s This English, a Southern dialect I recognise from their entertainments, where it signifies either low status or criminal. It’s the first time I’ve heard it addressed to me.
“Yes.” I keep a distance. I’m not frightened by these people. They’re big, but only by local standards, and Suit is out of shape. He wheezes when he talks and he’s only said six words. Black Jacket is younger and probably has old-fashioned gym muscle. He shouldn’t be a problem either. I worked in the Tunnels: I’ve had augs.
“One of your customers is missing,” Suit says. He’s wary, but getting more confident, rolling into his prepared speech. “We’re tryna find her.”
He must have followed me since Bar Five. Or somebody had let him know where to find me. I blame Ivan. Ivan’s the sort who would make friends with these people.
Suit says, “We know about your signals.” He pauses to see my response. I don’t give one. “Every single one of you. A signal that can be tracked.” He seems to think I’ll be impressed that he knows this. He nods at me, waiting to see what I have to say.
“We don’t call them signals,” I say. “They’re signatures.”
“I don’t care what you call them. We know she’s not at the resort.” Again, the nod. I’d thought it was for emphasis but it’s beginning to look like a nervous tic, the consequence of some old cranial trauma. “I want to find her,” he gasps. “That’s why you’re going to give us her signal.”
It’s a bizarre request. I wonder if he has the equipment to track a signature. I can imagine him trying with some early-21st tech. It’s laughable. Unless someone like Ivan has traded him an old Safety handheld.
It’s laughable but I don’t laugh. I don’t do anything.
“Did you hear me?” Suit’s voice drops a minor fourth. “Don’t pretend you can’t understand. You are going to give me her signal.”
Laughable. “I can’t release that information.”
“I’m not asking you.” That’s when he comes forward in a rush. He probably thinks we’re about the same weight and that his momentum will be enough to give him the advantage. That, and whatever brawling experience he’s picked up over the years.
He’s heavy, but I lifted heavier weights in the Tunnels. I grab his lapels, lift, turn and release. It’s enough to throw him clear over the front of a parked 4x4. I hear him land in the roa
d on the other side. Black Jacket’s right hand moves towards his left armpit. My first thought is that he’s reaching for a gun. They’re supposed to be illegal in this state but the early 21st is patchy about enforcing its laws. He pulls out a long blade, the kind you’d use to hack through heavy vegetation. I stay out of reach. Black Jacket’s expression doesn’t change. I show him my handheld. “Stop, or I use this.”
It’s a gamble. He stops. He doesn’t know it’s not a weapon. It can produce a beam of focused light that’s mainly useful for pointing at things, but unless I catch him directly in the eye he won’t even notice a change in temperature.
He doesn’t move. I suppose he’s thinking this through. Could it hurt him? I’m from the future, after all.
I level it at his face. “I warn you. I will use this.”
He lowers the blade and backs away, watchful. He still hasn’t said anything. I wonder if he can. Perhaps he has a stammer, and that’s what drove him to violent crime. I wave the hand-held. “Go help your friend”.
He glances at the road where Suit is still groaning, and carefully slides the blade back into its scabbard, or holster, or whatever. He zips up his jacket and lumbers off round the car. I walk away quickly, the useless handheld still ready, until I’ve turned the corner. Then I start running. Riemann told me not to worry about my client. It doesn’t look like I’m going to be able to take his advice.
Spad
You’re fourteen when the Defence Committee chooses you. Fourteen is your official age. It’s a guess. Your parents were refugees, displaced when the Number Cities started moving east. When the scouts from Kat found you sitting next to their bodies you were too young to tell them your age. They gave you a new name and decided you were five.
Later you overheard a nurse say malnutrition might have retarded your development. You didn’t understand this: you were taller than most girls your age.
The woman from the Defence Committee is stern. People don’t smile in Kat the careless way they do in the Number Cities. In Kat if people smiled it was a sign of trouble. Karia Stadt, she says. We see you haven’t made friends with the other girls.You watch her from the other side of the desk. This is not a bad thing. You could be the kind of person we need.
You try to mirror her expression. You want her to look across the table and see someone as serious as herself. “For what?”
To help us fight, the woman said. Don’t you want to fight against the people who killed your parents?
They talk about your parents as if you remember them. You ask, “Would I leave here?” You wanted to leave.
Not yet. Perhaps in a year. If you work hard at your classes.
“What do I have to do?”
The woman smiled. Just do as your teachers tell you. And stay alive.
Do as your teachers tell you. This is easy. You’re a good pupil. Some of the other girls forget minutes after they’re told and can’t pay attention, but you remember everything: lists, dates, names, formulae. The only problem you have is when the teachers expect you to deduce other facts. Think, girl. It would be easier if they told you what to do. Gave you rules and lists and left you alone.
Two other girls were seen by the woman from Defence. They talked about it in the dormitory. They want us for secret work, they boasted. They’re going to send us to the cities with bombs. They’re overexcited. They mix up their history.
You watch them talk and say nothing. The other girls have learned not to ask you questions.
Sex work, the older girls jeer. They’ll take you to special rooms and make you fuck old men.
The older girls always talk about sex. This guard, that teacher, everybody knows, don’t let them catch you on your own. You carry a knife in your jacket. You’ve made a special pocket so it won’t cut you by accident or fall out.
You listen to the other girls argue. You know the ones who boast won’t be chosen.
All you have to do is stay alive. You start counting the days.
A year passes. Ing is stabbed in the kitchen; Mana is killed by a soldier who saw her in the yard and climbed the wire fence to reach her. Some of the girls insist they know the details of her injuries and why nobody heard her scream. Prudi is found hanging in the shower block. Zinza and Jenfer simply disappear. It’s an average year.
You manage to stay alive.
Kat had four satellite towns: Mosk, Spad, Sver and one you can’t remember. The loss of the name pains you. You had a good memory once: you can still remember the names of the girls who died or disappeared. Mosk, Spad, Sver. Why not this? You repeat them under your breath hoping the fourth name will come. They sent you to Spad. You remember the journey, a long drive in a sealed vehicle. And here you are again, travelling in another one. You have to remind yourself you’re not going to Spad. Riemann is not an instructor.
That journey was at night. They didn’t tell you why it had to be at night. You thought it was because they didn’t want you to see any landmarks. You travelled with six girls you’d never seen before and couldn’t sleep because you didn’t trust them. It was the furthest you’d ever travelled.
You’ve walked further since. Back in the 21st you travelled across Europe.
Mosk, Spad, Sver. You won’t tell Riemann about Spad. It was a military secret in his time. You wonder if the Number Cities ever found out about it. You can’t ask.
You sat in silence until the battery on the truck failed. You had to walk the rest of the way, hurried along by your instructors, who were, you soon realised, terrified. They pointed in the direction they wanted you to go and slapped anyone who asked questions. You listened for noises—dogs, wolves, other people—but all you could hear was the wind. You didn’t know what Spad looked like but you’d been told several thousand people lived there. You expected to see lights after the next hill or the next, but each time you reached the top of one there appeared to be nothing ahead. You wondered if your instructors had taken you there to see who could survive in the open. Or if they were spies who meant to kill you or sell you to the Number Cities. Just as the horizon started to grow brighter they signalled you to stop. You’d reached one of the entrances. In the dark it had looked like another hill.
You’ll never forget that walk. Still tired and shivering, you were greeted by the woman who had recruited you. Her title was Assistant Director of the Defence Committee, External Division. You can’t remember her name; you can’t remember if you ever knew it. She was always addressed by her title: “Yes, Assistant Director. No, Assistant Director.” You liked that: to be known by a title rather than a name. Everybody had a name: a title—a function—had to be earned.
You were privileged to have been chosen, she said. You will be part of the struggle against the Number Cities. “Are you ready to learn how to fight?” You have never been happier.
In Spad they told you the truth about travel.
Official official
I tell Erquist the next morning. I start with the possibility that our client was carrying tonin. He finds this mildly interesting. “If she’s working for extemps it wouldn’t be illegal.” When I tell him about the attack he says, “I think they call it a machete.” Finally I tell him about the earlier meeting with Riemann. I don’t give his name or say how I knew him, only that he was one of us and didn’t have a signature. This makes him sit up straight: “And there was no reading? Nothing at all?”
“Nothing. And he made a point of making sure I noticed.”
“And he’s been here how long?”
“Fifteen years. At least, that’s what he said.”
“South America usually means materials acquisition.” Erquist thinks through the implications. “Except there wasn’t a fixed point fifteen years ago. That means he must have come here on a charter. That probably means he’s here on official business, reporting directly back to Geneva.” I’ve never seen him so animated: a man like Riemann is the stuff of entertainments, the suave authority figure who arrives at the end to solve the problems and save the day—of
course Erquist finds him intriguing. “Or possibly they’re not supposed to know about him either,” he says carefully, awed by the idea Geneva might not know something. “The signature—or the lack of it—means he’s not official. Or not official official.”
“And what about our client?”
“There is nothing in the records to indicate she becomes a problem.”
“Do they mention me being attacked or a man without a signature?”
Erquist becomes, by his standards, firm. “Those are not necessarily serious problems. I admit the attack is a concern, but you were unharmed. That said, if the natives are aware of tonin that might be a cause for concern, especially if Tri-Millennium is the source. Is there anything on the Arc?”
“I checked.” It didn’t take long. The resort Arc’s account of native drug culture is tailored to the needs of our clients: a list of popular synonyms (dope, coke, horse, molly, acid, skunk) with cautions about quality and asking for refunds. I’d been the first person to look at it in years. Tri-Millennium clients don’t get involved with the local drugs. It’s hard enough to persuade them to try the local food. “There was nothing.”
“Don’t you have a connection to their internet in your accommodation?” From the way he says their internet I can tell that, for him, it’s as much a mystery as anything else outside the resort. “You might find something on that.”
“I’ve already looked.” Among the local tech at my flat I have a laptop. Their internet is like a lawless version of the Arc: there’s a lot of information mixed in with misinformation and opinions and attempts to sell you products that may or may not exist. Its main use for me is to find out what people think is happening, or want to believe is happening. It’s monitored by their governments, so you have to be careful. I’d confined my searches to corporate media and public health sites. All I’d found was complaints about the legal status of their own drugs and more lists of synonyms. None of their street drugs had effects that seemed to match tonin. If the natives had discovered it they were keeping quiet. “No traces yet. I also looked at DomeWatch.” If anybody was going to accuse us of destroying their society with drugs it’s that crowd. A search of their site showed their main drug complaint is we haven’t yet given them a cure for cancer. Then I’d wasted ten minutes reading some speculation about what they called our plans to steal their drinking water. “As far as I can tell there’s nothing out there.”
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